


Maybe we could be the start of something (be together at the start of time)

by misskraken



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Emotional Sex, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning After, One Shot, Pining, Post-Avengers (2012), Shower Sex, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskraken/pseuds/misskraken
Summary: Tony makes Steve breakfast the morning after they fall into bed together.





	Maybe we could be the start of something (be together at the start of time)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again interrupting your regularly scheduled M’Challa content to bring you some good old-fashioned Stony lovin’. Because it’s 2012 again, apparently.

When Steve wakes up, it takes him a few breathless seconds to remember where he is.

He sits up in bed and looks at his surroundings, wiping bleary sleep from his eyes. The room is spacious, but sparely decorated, the walls and furnishings in muted, soothing shades of blue and gray. 

And then all at once, the events of the previous night hit him at full-force.

The suit that Tony wore to the gala, the pieces of it scattered across the floor.

Tony’s mouth on his, hot and open, dripping with the sweetest moans and requests that Steve had ever heard.

Tony beneath him, his legs belted around Steve’s waist, writhing against the cool silk of the sheets as Steve-

Fuck. 

They slept together. They finally slept together.

Steve hasn’t had an asthma attack since the 1940s, but sudden clutch of his breath makes him fear for a split second that the serum has suddenly worn off and left him a wheezing, helpless bag of skin and bones.

Tony is nowhere to be found. 

Steve gets up and checks the bathroom. Nothing.

Suddenly, Steve becomes aware of the warm, savory scent wafting though the air. It smells of oil and salt, herbs and spices, and his mouth waters.

Someone is in the kitchen.

Steve gets up and pulls on his undershirt and pants before walking out of the bedroom. In the sleepy-blue morning light, Tony’s penthouse in Avenger’s tower seems transformed. Steve has been here so many times before, as a friend, a confidant, a brother-in-arms.

But this? 

Steve has no idea what this means for his relationship with Tony, but he suspects that he is about to find out.

He also suspects that, whatever the outcome, nothing will ever be the same.

When he steps into the kitchen, Steve forgets how to breathe.

Tony is standing over the stove, raking mounds of scrambled eggs into a ceramic bowl as he whistles a tune. He is clad in baggy sweats and a ratty gray t-shirt, the blue glow of his arc reactor visible through the thin material. His black hair is still mussed from the night before, and it sticks up at all angels like the feathers of a baby bird. Steve can just make out the shape of a purplish love bruise peaking out over the neckline of the shirt.

“Tony,” Steve says, his voice almost embarrassingly breathy.

Tony turns, and the whistle dies on his lips. For a moment, they do nothing but stare at each other.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tony says quietly, his normal smirky bravado nowhere to be found.

“Morning,” Steve answers as he takes a careful step towards him. His eyes fall on the messy countertops, and on the food Tony is preparing. In addition to the scrambled eggs, there is a pitcher of orange juice, a bowl full of freshly cut peaches, and a platter full of bacon. It all smells heavenly.

“What’s all this?” Steve asks.

“Breakfast,” Tony says, “Figured you might want something to eat. Lord knows you worked up the appetite last night.”

Tony turns his face away from Steve as he says the last word and busies himself pouring the orange juice, but Steve can still see the red flush that creeps up the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “It looks great.”

“You sound surprised.”

Steve smile and gives a little shrug.

“I guess I always thought had someone to do your cooking for you.”

Tony looks at Steve with an arched eyebrow and an impish.

“I do normally,” Tony deadpans, “but she’s on maternity leave. Don’t worry, though. I’ll have the guy I pay to wipe my ass cook us lunch.”

Steve laughs then, really laughs, and so does Tony. For a split second, some of the tension leaves the air. Tony holds out a plate to Steve. 

“Here,” he says. “Bon appetit.” 

The eggs on the plate are heaped with a truly ridiculous amount of grated cheddar cheese, and there is a tiny spring of decorative parsley on the side that warms Steve’s heart. When Steve reaches out to take it, their hands brush, and Tony meets Steve’s eyes.

The warmth of Tony’s skin and the light in his brown eyes are suddenly too much for Steve to bear, and he sets the plate on the counter before cupping Tony’s face with both hands and pulling him in for a kiss.

Tony jolts in surprise when their lips meet, but almost immediately he opens his mouth and threads his arms around Steve’s waist. It is a gentle kiss, but an open one, and Steve curls around Tony like he is the one thing in the world he can’t live without. The scent of the cologne that Tony put on the night before still lingers on their clothes and skin, and it makes Steve’s mouth water. Tony’s calloused hands catch on the fabric of Steve’s undershirt as he lifts it up, seeking the warm, firm skin of Steve’s hips and belly.

Steve feels like a bird without feathers, a turtle without its shell. Vulnerable, intensely so. But he also feels a wild, incredulous joy that bubbles up in his throat and threatens to spill out of him in the form of all the words he has kept tamped down within his heart for the past year.

Because Tony slept with him last night. Because he made him breakfast this morning. Because right now he is here in Steve’s arms, warm and real and better than Steve could have ever imagined.

Tony is the one who breaks the kiss.

“Whoa, Jethro,” he says gently, planting a final kiss on Steve’s chin, “we really do need to eat.” 

He hands Steve his plate of food and guides him over to the counter, pulls out the two barstools for them to sit on. 

They eat in silence for a while, the clicking of their forks against the plates the only sound in the room. The food is amazing, especially the peaches: sweet and cold and juicy. Tony eats them with his fingers, glancing over at Steve as he sucks the remaining sugar and juice off of his index finger. Steve tries not to stare.

“So,” Tony says.

“So,” Steve echoes.

“I had fun last night,” Tony says.

“So did I.”

Another beat of awkward silence.

“I gotta say,” Tony says, “I was kind of surprised you said yes.”

“Don’t know why you would be,” Steve says, “I’ve wanted you for months.”

At this Tony looks truly shocked, and the disbelief in his eye pricks at Steve’s heart.

“It was perfect,” Steve says earnestly. “You were perfect.”

Tony opens his mouth, then closes it. And then he smiles.

“Well,” he says brightly, “nice to finally know that Captain America has a flaw.”

“And what’s that?”

“Horrible taste in men.” 

Before Steve can respond, Tony puts his fork down and juts his chin at Steve’s empty plate.

“You finished?”

Steve nods.

Tony gets up from his seat and comes to stand before Steve, between his legs. His hands skim across Steve’s broad shoulders, up the side of his neck. His touch is gentle, careful, reverent. Steve wraps his arms around Tony’s waste and bends to kiss his chest, a couple of inches above his arc reactor, the one place Steve was not allowed to touch last night. Tony leans forward, his lips ghosting across the shell of Tony’s ear.

“I’m afraid that’s all I made,” Tony says, “but if you’re still hungry, you can join me in the shower, and I’ll give you a mouthful of whatever you want.”

Steve picks Tony up and carries him into the bedroom, not bothering to close the door behind them.

~

Steve takes Tony against the shower wall, the heels of Tony’s feet digging into Steve’s ass. He fucks him slowly, leisurely, savoring every inch of Tony’s skin, every cry, every gasp. The water of the the shower pelts Steve’s back in a blistering deluge, but he likes the heat. After spending the better part of a century in ice, in frozen, living death, Steve clings to whatever warmth he can get his hands on, no matter how much it hurts.

Tony has kept his eyes shut the entire time, his face upturned. His expression is a mixture of ecstasy and something like agony. He looks like one of the saints in the church Steve attended as a child. Steve prays silently for Tony to open his eyes, to look at him and see everything, everything. But he doesn’t, so Steve just kisses Tony harder, pumping faster into that tight, silken heat.

Suddenly, Tony’s eyes snap open, and the pupils are blown so wide that they have all but swallowed the irises.

“I love you,” he blurts out.

Time freezes. Steve freezes.

“What?” he breathes.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you heard what I said,” Tony grits out between his teeth, as if Steve had personally wrenched his confession from the pit of his chest. “Of course I’m in love with you. I grated cheese on your eggs, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been in love with you since fucking New York, alright? So if you think this is gonna be some cut-and-dry fuck buddy deal, it can’t be. I’m too far gone. So maybe it’s best if we just-“

Steve silences Tony with a kiss.

The joy he feels threatens to split him clean down the middle.

“Tony,” Steve says, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you too.”

The look on Tony’s face almost brings Steve to his knees.

“You do?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Yes,” Steve says, kissing him again. “Yes, of course I do.” He resumes his thrusting, rolling his hips up into Tony’s body, and Tony’s head falls back against the tiled wall. 

“So that’s it, then?” Tony says breathlessly, the disbelief still plain in his voice. “You’re fine with all this baggage? You really wanna come home to me after-“

“Tony,” Steve says, “you are my home.”

Tony’s face crumbles then, and he lunges forward to crush their mouths together as he clings to Steve’s shoulders. It feels like a baptism, or maybe some kind of miracle.

“Steve,” Tony gasps, his voice hitching, “Steve, sweetheart, I’m gonna come.”

Steve gives up all of his careful control and lays into Tony, stripping his cock with the hand that is not supporting Tony’s body.

“Fuck,” Tony moans. “Steve.”

“Come for me, Tony,” Steve murmurs. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful. I can’t wait to make you look like this every single day.”

With that, Tony goes rigid and spends himself all over their torsos, the whites of his eyes visible as his orgasm claims him. 

Steve isn’t far behind, and when he kisses Tony as he finally, finally comes, he knows he’s finally gotten a taste of heaven, and his name is Anthony Stark.

~

Afterwards, they sit there on the shower floor, Tony’s head resting on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s arm wrapped around him. Neither of them have said a word since they finished, and Steve is afraid to break the pregnant silence, half-fearing that everything Tony just said was a hallucination, a wonderful, fantastical dream.

But then Tony reaches out and takes Steve’s right hand in his. He holds it to his lips for a second, his eyes closed. 

Then he presses it to his arc reactor, holding it there with both hands.

His eyes say everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write something sweet and tender before Endgame comes out and devastates us all.


End file.
